


Feeding the Soul

by scifigrl47



Series: The Foodieverse [20]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Food Porn, M/M, holiday fic, restaurant AU, valentine's day fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29476956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47/pseuds/scifigrl47
Summary: The problem with running a restaurant is that restaurants are open on holidays.It's been a long day and a longer night and Tony just wants to go home.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: The Foodieverse [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/291359
Comments: 178
Kudos: 1231





	Feeding the Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [copperbadge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/gifts).



“Go home.”

A few heads came up, here and there around the kitchen, blank, exhausted eyes struggling to focus on Tony. He wiped his hands on a towel. “Thank you for your efficiency, your effort, your steadfast dedication to your duty and our guests.”

He pitched the towel over his shoulder. “Now get out.”

Someone laughed, a laugh that sounded almost like a sob. No one stopped working. Across the floor, Bruce kept scrubbing at his station, and Tony was almost certain that he was actually unconscious. Peter was leaning on his mop, slackjawed and swaying on his feet. Tony resisted the urge to kick the mop out of his hands, mostly because he didn’t want to pay the workman’s comp claim when the kid faceplanted onto something sharp. “We’ve still got to set the walk in, Chef.”

“We’re closed tomorrow, and there’s a cleaning crew coming in to do a deep scrub and it’s three goddamn am and you all need to go home and offer your most abject apologies to your loved ones for choosing a career that makes it all but certain that you will never, and I mean never, know what it’s like to celebrate an actual holiday with them.” Tony reached for his water bottle. “There are boxes for each of you in the cloak room. They contain a wide variety of calorically dense treats covered in spun sugar or gold dust or essence of amor, I don’t even fucking know, take one even if you hate chocolate, because there’s also a wad of cash in there.”

He paused. “A personal gift from me, to you, for the insanity you just faced like the fucking pros you all are, and as such, I see no reason to put it down on any government paperwork, if you declare it, you’re an idiot and your coworkers will punch you in the head.”

Sue heaved a massive copper pot onto its hook, barely glancing in his direction. “Why punch when you have access to so much weaponry?” she asked, a finger tracing the bottom of the pot.

“Because Pepper made it clear that we couldn’t have knife fights behind the dumpster anymore,” Tony said. He caught Peter by the shoulder and walked the kid in a circle, pointing him towards the back door before he confiscated his broom. “Box. Coat. Go home. Anyone who is still in this kitchen in five minutes is going to be fired and not the fun kind of fired where I rehire you before the next course because I hadn’t planned ahead about what I was going to do with the asparagus in your absence.”

“I hate asparagus,” Peter said.

“Yeah, me, too, but that’s what happens when you cleverly design your menu around supposed aphrodisiacs,” Tony said. He wrapped an arm around Peter’s shoulder. “What’s our assignment?”

“Box. Coat. Go home,” Peter said.

“I’m very proud of you. Everyone. Be like Parker. Go away so I can saw my feet off in peace.” No one moved. Tony sighed. “What is wrong with you?”

“You didn’t say ‘please,’” Riri said, and Tony pointed at her.

“Please get the FUCK out of my kitchen,” he said, and this time, people started stumbling, zombielike and awkward, towards the door. Tony leaned up against his station, his water bottle clutched in a hand that he told himself absolutely wasn’t shaking, waiting for them to empty out of the kitchen.

“Hey.”

He was afraid to turn around, because he one hundred percent would’ve fallen on his face. “How’s the front of house, Pepper?”

“I’m going to go with ‘in ruins,’” she said, and she was much shorter than she should’ve been.

He looked down. “Are those-”

“Do you know how many people we seated tonight?” she asked, leaning against the counter next to him. “Do you have any idea how many reservations we pushed through that dining room, Stark?”

“I know how many fucking asparagus nests I had a hand in making, so…”

“Yeah, well, it was a truly astronomical amount of people,” Pepper said. “A truly astronomical amount of rich, spoiled, entitled people.”

“And I appreciate your sacrifice, I just had no idea you owned flats, let alone that you owned Crocs,” Tony said.

“I cannot feel anything below my hips and that’s a good thing, because when I can feel my legs again, I will want to die,” Pepper said. She rolled her head in his direction. “Happy Valentine’s Day, boss.”

“Please tell me we made money tonight,” Tony said.

“We made so much money,” she said. “Does that help?”

“Not in the least, but if you had said we hadn’t, I would’ve cried. Straight up cried,” Tony said. He looked across the kitchen floor. Bruce was still scrubbing away at his station. “I think he’s sleep cleaning. Is sleep cleaning a thing? Like sleep walking but instead of wandering off, he’s just bleaching the hell out of a six inch square of his station.”

“Tony?” Pepper patted him on the shoulder. “I’m front of house. The kitchen is your problem.”

“Go home, Potts,” Tony said, pushing himself upright. He wobbled on his feet, and Pepper grabbed his elbow. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“You owe me ten pounds of gourmet Swiss chocolate and a couple of dozen roses,” Pepper said. “In that I’m going to have to spend our day off tomorrow dealing with complaints from people who didn’t get tables tonight.”

He gave her a look. “Did they have reservations?”

“No, they did not.”

Tony nodded. “Were they dicks about not having reservations, when we were fully booked for tonight roughly eighteen months ago?”

“They absolutely were.”

“Then fuck ‘em,” Tony said with a grin. “Order yourself whatever the hell you want and put it on the company card, Pep.”

“You’ll regret saying that,” she said. She headed towards the staff room, moving slowly across the wet floor. “Bruce? The dining room’s closed. Good work.”

“Good work,” Bruce said, but he just kept scrubbing his station.

Pepper looked back at Tony with a shrug, and he waved her off. “Kitchen is my problem,” he said with a smile. “Good night, Potts. Good work.”

“Good night,” she said, disappearing out the kitchen door.

Tony walked towards Bruce, bracing himself on each station as he passed. “Banner. Buddy. Time to get some sleep. Perhaps twenty plus hours of sleep? I know you’ve been running on fumes for the last few days, and that’s great-” He stopped. “That’s… That’s not great, actually. Rewind. You’ve been running on fumes, and we appreciate it, but it’s done, we’re done, we made it.”

He paused on the other side of Bruce’s station. “Bruce. Go home.”

Bruce looked up, meeting Tony’s gaze with unfocused eyes. “What seating are we on?” he asked.

Tony smiled. “We’re done.” Bruce nodded, but didn’t move. “Bruce?”

“How long til the next seating?”

Tony glanced at the clock on the wall. “Around thirty-five hours?” he said with a smile. “Bruce. Okay. You’re starting to worry me here. Can we-”

“Tony?”

Tony’s head snapped up, his heart in his throat. Steve leaned into the kitchen, propelling Peter ahead of him with a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He had a cooler box in his other hand, and he set it on the edge of the counter. Steve smiled at Tony, warm and familiar, his hair flopping over his forehead, his sweatshirt hanging open over his red t-shirt. “Found this outside.”

“Why did you bring it back in?” Tony asked, wondering if he could stand up straight. He decided not to risk it. “Parker.”

“There’s a lock on my bike, Chef,” Peter said, his voice wobbling. He was hugging his gift box to his chest, and he sounded like he was on the verge of tears. “There’s a lock on my bike and I can’t get the lock off, I’ve tried, it’s a key lock and I don’t have the key, I don’t…” His voice trailed away, and he stared at Tony, his eyes wet. “There’s a lock.”

Tony stared at him. “Yes, Parker. Yes, there’s a lock. I put that lock there. Because it’s three am, Parker, and you’re barely able to walk, let alone bike back to Queens at three am in mid-February. If you try to do that, you will die, and then your aunt will light me and my restaurant on fire, probably in that order.”

Peter stared back. “Can I have the key?”

“No, Parker, you may not have the key, we discussed this at ten pm. You are taking a cab home. You are taking a cab home and then giving me your receipt so that I can reimburse you for your cab.” Tony scraped a hand over his face. “And this is why there is a lock on your bike, because it is THREE AM. In FEBRUARY. And you cannot be trusted to call a cab.”

Peter nodded. “But how will I get back to work on-”

“Another cab,” Tony said, ignoring the way that Steve was clearly trying not to laugh. Tony glared at him. “Which I also told you that I’d pay for. Parker. I told you that five hours ago.”

Peter was still nodding. “I… Don’t remember five MINUTES ago,” he admitted.

“There was yelling,” Tony told him.

“There usually is,” Steve said, and he already had his phone out. “I’ll call you a cab, Peter.”

Peter nodded. “That… That would be nice.”

Tony pointed at Bruce. “Can we make that two?”

Steve frowned. “Is he-”

“No,” Tony said, because there was no way that question could end well. “Just… Just get a cab and I’ll pry the goddamn cleaning equipment out of his hands.”

“Right,” Steve said, throwing an arm around Peter’s shoulders and guiding him back to the door. “Peter, c’mon, we’ll wait out back.”

“Can you help me with my bike?” Peter asked.

Steve patted him on the back. “Not at all.”

Peter nodded. “Okay.”

Tony grinned after them, and snagged a dishcloth from the stack. “Shift change,” he said, his voice brisk. “Off my station, Banner.”

Bruce stepped back, and Tony slid into his place, a dance they’d done a thousand times or more, muscle memory taking over for conscious thought. Tony smiled over his shoulder at him “Good work.”

It took a moment, but Bruce nodded. “Good work,” he said, scraping a hand over his face. “What time is it?”

“Too late and too early,” Tony said, giving the station a cursory pass with his cloth. “Steve’s getting you a a cab, buddy.”

“I’d say that I don’t need it, but… I might,” Bruce said. “How’d we do?”

“We paid the rent for the next few months,” Tony said. “Good enough.”

Steve appeared in the door. “Bruce? Cab’s here.”

Tony reached out, gripping Bruce’s shoulder. “Go get some sleep, Bruce. I’ll see you in a few days.”

“That’s… Still up in the air,” Bruce said, but he started towards the door, with a slow, plodding tread. He looked at Steve. “Can I leave him to you?”

“Hey!” Tony said, but Steve was looking at him, with eyes so blue they hurt, and that soft, soft little smile that he reserved only for Tony.

“I’ll do my best,” he said. “Good night, Bruce.”

“Good night,” Bruce said, stumbling past him, leaving the two of them alone.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Steve said, his voice quiet in the silence of the kitchen.

“I think we missed it,” Tony said. “By a couple of hours.”

Steve made a show of looking at his watch. “I think it’s Valentine’s Day until we go to bed. Those are the rules.”

Tony chuckled. “The rules?” he asked. “We have rules now?”

“In our own charming way, yes, I think we do,” Steve said. He held out a hand. “Don’t suppose I can get a hug, here?”

Tony considered that. “I’m going to be honest, Steve.”

“That’s both surprising and appreciated,” Steve said.

“I’m not 100% sure my legs are going to hold me much longer,” Tony said, bracing an elbow on the counter. “So if you want some physical gratification, you’re going to have to come over here to get it.”

Steve’s head tipped forward, but not before Tony saw his smile. “Always making me work for it, Stark,” he said, pushing away from the wall. 

“I mean, playing hard to get is very, very hard,” Tony said, watching in appreciation as Steve crossed the floor towards him. Tony let out a low soft whistle, and Steve laughed. “But sometimes it’s worth it.”

Steve reached out, sliding a hand around Tony’s waist. “You make Chef’s whites sexy.”

“That’s the trauma of culinary school talking, you know that, right?” Tony asked, tipping his head up so that Steve could kiss him.

“Maybe,” Steve whispered, his fingers brushing against Tony’s chin. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“God, I hate this holiday,” Tony said, just to hear Steve laugh, He arched up, his mouth catching Steve’s, letting the kiss linger. “I’m closing for February next year.”

“Reopen just in time for Mother’s Day?” Steve whispered back. “Brave. Stupid. But brave.”

“No, I have the most amazing idea for a deconstructed mimosa,” Tony said, and Steve buried his face in Tony’s shoulder, laughing out loud. Grinning at the ceiling, Tony stroked his hair, letting his fingers linger there, loving the familiar pressure of Steve’s body against his. “Want to know what’s in it?”

“I’m not sure I’m prepared for that,” Steve said, kissing the side of Tony’s neck.

Tony laughed. “Did you have a good night?” he asked.

“I prepped for three times the normal volume, and sold out by one am,” Steve said, his arms curled around Tony’s waist.

“Then what the hell are you still doing here?” Tony asked, playing with the soft, spiky hairs at the nape of Steve’s neck. 

“Waiting for you,” Steve said, his eyes closed, a slight, easy smile on his lips.

“Idiot,” Tony said, the love in his voice taking the sting out of the insult. “Go home next time.”

“I shut the truck up and took a nap,” Steve said.

“Yeah, know what you have at home? A bed.”

“Know what wasn’t at home?” Steve asked. His eyes opened, and Tony’s heart skipped a beat. “You.”

“Yeah, because I’m an even bigger idiot than you are,” Tony said, and he was pinned between the counter and the weight of Steves body and everything hurt, his feet and his hands and his head and his back, everything ached. But Steve was warm and close and when Tony moved, his hands slid up under the back of Tony’s chef’s jacket. Tony kissed his hair, letting his breath linger there.

“I made you something,” he whispered. “Probably not something you’d like, but, you know me, out of ideas before I even start.

Steve pulled away. “That doesn’t sound like you at all,” he said with an easy smile. 

“Glad to see I’ve still got you fooled,” Tony said, trying to straighten up. “As that’s one of the bedrock tenets of this relationship.” Steve let him go, his hands sliding free, and Tony stumbled.

“Whoa,” Steve said, catching his arm. “I can get it.”

Tony shook him off. “Excuse me, this is not your kitchen, Rogers, you-” He waved a hand in Steve’s direction. “Stay there. Look pretty.”

Steve grabbed a stool, dragging it over to the counter and boosting himself onto it. “You always give me the hard jobs,” he said.

“Yeah, well, I have faith in your skills, and also the fact that you buy yout t-shirts at least a size too small.” Tony moved towards the walk-in. “A habit I appreciate more than you could possibly know.” 

“Excuse me, I do not,” Steve said.

“Uh-huh.” Things were a mess in here, and Tony made a deliberate effort to ignore that. Nothing was on fire and at this point, he’d take that. The box was on the top shelf, and he collected it with hands that weren’t quite steady.

Returning to the prep station, he set it down, pulling the lid off. Thank God he’d prepped. Because right now, he wasn’t capable of doing much more than combining a few already prepared ingredients. He collected a plate from the stack at his station, the perfect, gleaming white canvas, and reached for the bottle of puree. 

There was a grace to the movement, as close to art as he got, a twist of his wrist, practiced and assured, and he scooped up a spoon, using the bowl of it to spread the puree across the plate. The dessert settled in the center of the design, and he chased it with pinch of glittering power, letting it float from his fingertips. The flowers had just enough bend to them that he could shape them to the spots where they needed to go, even after the time in the fridge.

It wasn’t much, but it was the best he could do.

He picked up the plate with his other hand, and crossed to set it in front of Steve. “Thought I’d have this tomorrow,” he said, strangely anxious. He turned the plate with a twitch of his fingers, centering it on the silver counter in front of Steve. “So. Not my best work.”

The dome of chocolate, its surface a galaxy like swirl, rested in a deep blue wave of puree, tiny pinpricks of sugar scattered across the plate, warm golden-white stars against the sky. A few candied violets nestled along the rim, small and brilliant and imperfect against the chocolate. Steve reached out, taking the fork that Tony offered, and breaking the shell, Inside, ganache cradled a barely liquid center of puree that ran out across the tines of the fork.

“Puree of organic wild Maine blueberries,” Tony said. Steve held up the fork, and the puree was so dark it was almost red, and he could smell it from here. “The little ones. That actually taste of something. Not the giant blue abominations they force on us now. Dark chocolate ganache. The cocoa’s ethically sourced. The powder is salted caramel dust.”

He paused. “Candied the violets myself.” He reached for a towel, intending to wipe his hands, and Steve caught his wrist. Tony froze as Steve lifted his fingers to his mouth, Steve’s lips brushing against the skin there, where the caramel dust still clung.

It was suddenly very hard to breathe. “That’s… Probably against at least a few sanitary guidelines,” he managed, and he sounded like a thirteen year-old boy who’s voice wasn’t quite sure what octave it was going to settle into. 

“Probably,” Steve said, the word caught in the hollow of Tony’s palm. “Delicious, though.” His tongue darted out, tasting Tony’s fingers, and then he sucked one into his mouth, meeting Tony’s eyes as he did. 

“I’m too tired to get turned on,” Tony said, which was absolutely, totally, 100% a lie, and judging by the way that Steve’s eyes danced, he knew it “Okay, so I’m rather painfully aroused, I’m too tired to do anything about it.”

Laughing, Steve pulled back. “I love you. How much of this powder do you have?”

“I mean, I made it, I can make it in bulk,” Tony managed. “What do you want it sprinkled-”

Steve’s eyebrows arched, his teeth flashing in a grin, and Tony nodded. “Right. You’re trying to kill me. Right.” He pulled away, and that hurt, that was actually painful. He headed for the sink. “God, you are going to kill me.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Steve said, reaching for his fork. But his face was flushed, his breathing a little uneven. He scooped up a bit of the ganache, swirling it through the blueberries before slipping it between his lips.

His eyes closed, and he made a soft, broken sound that bordered on obscene. 

Tony grinned. “Now, that’s a review.”

“I love you,” Steve said, the fork still in his mouth, and Tony started to laugh.

“Right, we’ll see how you feel when we’re making a frozen pizza tomorrow,” he said, washing his hands. 

“Still going to love you,” Steve said, “and we can order a real pizza, you know. We live in New York. Why would we possibly make a frozen pizza?”

“Because no one delivers at 10 am.”

“Point.” Steve took another bite, his attention focused on his plate. “I made you something, too.”

Tony straightened up, a jolt of pure pleasure going through him. “Yeah?” he asked, a grin splitting his face.

Steve grinned back. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“Look, this is about the worst day in food service, I expected you went home three hours ago,” Tony said as Steve turned on his stool, reaching back for the cooler box he’d been carrying when he walked in. 

“Yeah, well, as you said, if I had any sense, I wouldn’t be in food service,” Steve said, opening the box. He reached in with both hands, and pulled out a small, covered dutch oven. He slid it across the counter, setting it in front of Tony, and offered him a pot holder.

Curious, Tony lifted the lid, releasing a waft of steam and the tangy, salty smell of melted cheese. “Oh, fuck me,” Tony said, grabbing a stool and dragging it over.

Steve went back to his dessert. “Jalapeno and bacon macaroni and cheese,” he said. “With the trashy, processed cheese you love.”

Tony peered down at the dish, his mouth watering. “What’s the dust on top?”

Steve sighed. “Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.”

“I love you so much,” Tony said, on the verge of tears. “I just. I love you so much.”

Steve grinned at him. “Prove it by never, ever telling anyone I made that.”

“And risk them trying to steal you? Fuck that.” Tony reached for a fork. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Steve clicked his fork against Tony’s, a toast between eaters. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”


End file.
